


Similitude

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: Similitude [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Developing Friendships, Drama, Episode: s07e06 The Time of Our Lives, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Light Angst, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mystery, POV John Watson, and I have no impulse control, and alternate Sherlock is a darling, because I'm ridiculous, inspired by an episode of the tv show Castle, literal alternate universe, poor John is so confused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:57:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4978060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after a fight with his impossible flatmate, John Watson finds himself in a new world. A world in which his life is not his life, his flatmate is no longer his flatmate, and the word impossible just might get a whole new meaning...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Going to Regret This...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe myself. But I watched an episode of Castle, and then my brain wouldn't shut up until I wrote this. It's totally ridiculous, but what can I say? It was write this or go even more insane because of school. And apparently I can't come up with my own storylines anymore so I have to steal them from other tv shows. So I own almost literally nothing about this. Except my mistakes, since this is un-beta'd. Enjoy; I certainly did!
> 
> Castle to Alexis: “Sweetie, everything you do matters. Every moment, every decision you make, it affects the people around you, it changes the world, in a million imperceptible ways. No matter what your reality, you can make it better.” – The Time of Our Lives (Castle, s7, e6).

After finding toes in the bathtub for the sixth time that week, John Watson stormed out into the sitting room, with the serious desire to pick a bone with a certain someone.  
  
Obviously, that someone was his insufferable detective.  
  
"Sherlock," John snapped, the colander of severed body parts - cradled in a towel just in case they had been steeped in toxins or something - clutched gingerly in his hands. "Do you want to tell me what the meaning of this is? _Again_?"  
  
"I told you. Experiment." Sherlock didn't even look up from his microscope. "Put it back."  
  
"I'd like to take a shower."  
  
"It doesn't take up much space."  
  
"It's a colander of severed toes! I am not showering with them!"  
  
Sherlock shrugged, but barely. Clearly whatever was under the microscope was far more interesting than this conversation. "They can't be moved. Now if you'd replace them before the entire experiment is ruined-"  
  
"Dammit, Sherlock, I don't bloody care about your experiment! Can't you see how bizarre and inconsiderate you're being? Normal people don't put toes in the bathtub!"  
  
Sherlock's brow furrowed faintly. "Strictly speaking, _they_ aren't in the tub. The _colander_ is..."  
  
"Oh, you know what I mean. This is the sixth time this week I’ve stumbled across a pile of toes, Sherlock, and I've had it! Either move them elsewhere, or you just might find me moving elsewhere!"  
  
Sherlock had the audacity to chuckle. John had indeed said such things before, but he wasn't so sure he was bluffing this time. Work had been maddening lately, and this was the last straw.  
  
"I wish you would take me seriously," he muttered, slamming the colander onto the kitchen counter and starting to storm off for a sulk. "Then maybe you'd be a bit easier to live with."  
  
"What?" John looked back and saw, to his surprise, the briefest flicker of hurt in Sherlock's eyes. He was too surprised (and still too miffed, to be honest) to feel guilty, though.  
  
"I said, I wish you were easier to live with."  
  
The hurt was quickly masked by a facade of derision and falsified amusement. "You'd miss me if I were gone."  
  
"No, I don't know that I would. I'd probably be a successful doctor with a steady job without you, and I'd sure as heck have a more peaceful life. You're the one who takes me for granted, I think you'd be the one to miss me if I were gone."  
  
With that, he turned and stomped up the stairs to his room, indulging in a good door slam. He could feel guilty about yelling at Sherlock in the morning; for now, he just wanted to sleep. Especially since a shower was now the last thing he wanted at the moment. Who knew what sort of toe residue was in that tub?  
  
He yawned and lay down, stretching out languorously. Within minutes, he was drifting off to sleep. Thus, he did not see the figure slip inside the room via the window, stealthily approach the bed, then after a moment depart the way it had come.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The next morning, John got up and stepped into the shower first thing. It took him nearly three minutes of standing under the warm spray before he remembered the toe issue from the previous night. Grimacing, he rushed through shampooing and leaped out of the tub as quickly as he could without killing himself, then toweled off his feet gingerly. He spent the next few minutes trying desperately not to think about all the possible infections he could get.  
  
When he was dressed and hopefully decontaminated enough, he stepped out into the kitchen, where Sherlock stood leaning against the counter. A cup of coffee was in his hand, and he looked as if he hadn't slept. John stepped over to the cabinet and poured himself a coffee. 

Sherlock carefully avoided his eyes the entire time, and John winced. He had clearly hurt Sherlock's feelings, something he was unused to doing. It wasn't often someone was able to get under the detective's skin, and John was still in a state of surprise that he was able to do so now. Also that his comment from the night before had even affected Sherlock.

He opened his mouth, but if an apology had been about to come out, he never found out. Sherlock's phone rang at that precise moment, and John snapped his mouth shut again, sighing and taking another sip of coffee.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes. Where? Well, obviously I'm coming, do you think I would ask that if I were planning on staying home? Yes, good for you, I'll be there soon."  
  
He hung up and glanced at John, calculatingly, as if gauging where they stood with one another. 

"Case?" John asked, trying to finish the coffee before they left. Of course he was coming, one fight wasn't going to change that.  
  
Sherlock nodded. "Homicide in the east end. Coming?"  
  
"Why not?" John shrugged and tried not to look too eager. It was his day off anyway, and a homicide sounded like a welcome break from dealing with flu season.

 

* * *

 

  
One slightly tense cab ride later, he and Sherlock arrived at the crime scene, which consisted of a cordoned-off section of street alongside a not-so-reputable-looking line of shops, half of which appeared to be abandoned. There was a body, sprawled inelegantly across the kerb, a small bloodstain on the pavement beneath it.  
  
"Well?" Sherlock asked, snapping on gloves and stepped past Lestrade, who stood near the police tape, waiting for them.  
  
"Victim's a middle-aged bloke, no name yet. A single gunshot to the chest, no signs of a struggle otherwise. There's some white powder on his hands, dunno if it's drugs or not yet. We'll know when we get him to the-"  
  
"Of course it's not drugs," Sherlock chuckled, kneeling beside the victim. "It's powdered sugar. Even a blind man could see that, but then you aren't blind so I wouldn't expect you to realize."  
  
He ignored Lestrade's sputtering and inspected the body. John stood to the side still, waiting for Sherlock to cue him. He wasn't sure how to play this yet, since Sherlock was apparently still upset.  
  
Sherlock's brow furrowed, and he shifted his weight so he was closer to the victim's feet. He reached out and pulled a bit of dirt off the bottom of his shoes, crumbled the clods between his fingers for a moment, then sniffed them gingerly.  
  
"This dried mud is from the west end. You need to show his picture around there. Perhaps someone will be able to identify him."  
  
But John never heard Lestrade's reply, because at that moment, he staggered, going lightheaded. Before he could react to this sudden vertigo, the pavement rushed up to meet him, and everything went black.

 

* * *

 

  
John’s eyes opened to find himself stumbling. He caught himself at the last minute, grabbing a lamppost for support and righting himself.  
  
Okay… What just happened?  
  
He looked around and found, to his surprise, that he was back at the end of the street. The crime scene, bustling with investigators, was several hundred yards away.  
  
_I'm losing it_ , he thought, giving his head a shake. _Maybe those severed toes gave me an infection in my brain_.  
  
Pushing away worries about more serious and feasible explanations - a brain tumor, dementia, shut up Watson, do this later - he headed back over to the police tape and ducked underneath it.  
  
"Oi," Sally Donovan called as she climbed out of a car. She hurried over and cut him off before he was even able to stand up straight again on the other side of the tape. "What do you think you're doing?"  
  
He frowned. Even she wasn't usually this hostile, at least not to him. "I'm here to help Sherlock, what do you think I'm here for?"  
  
She raised her eyebrows. "Holmes?" She looked over her shoulder and her eyes darkened. "Greg, could you come here?"  
  
John tried to get past her, really confused now. Why was she being so difficult? She stopped him, however, looking at him with alarm and... There was no recognition whatsoever.  
  
Lestrade approached, frowning. "What is it?"  
  
"First of all, what is the freak doing here? You know what I said about this.” 

Lestrade shifted, looking strangely sheepish. “You said we’d need all the help we could get. So I texted him-“

It was that moment that John managed to get a look around Donovan at the crime scene, where he spotted Sherlock, crouched by the body, gazing intently at the chest where the powdered sugar was. He didn’t appear to have noticed the exchange between Donovan and Lestrade yet.  
  
Donovan sighed. “This is the third time this month, Greg, I can’t have this. You know he’s not welcome here. I don’t need this insubordination.” 

“Sally, you know, he could help-“

“Don’t ‘Sally’ me, Greg. Remember who the DI here is.”

John watched this exchange, frowning. “He is.”

Donovan laughed softly, though Greg turned a puzzled look onto John. “Who’s this?”

Before John could reply, Sally spoke. “I don’t know. He claims to know Holmes, but last I checked, the freak didn’t have friends…”  
  
This time, Sherlock, apparently having heard his name, looked up towards them. His gaze landed on John immediately, and his brow furrowed as he clearly scanned and deduced him. It was strange to be at the receiving end of that stare once again, the stare Sherlock usually reserved for people he was only first meeting.  
  
What the bloody hell was going on here?  
  
"Who's this?" Sherlock asked, standing in a single, swift motion.  
  
"What are you talking about?" John scoffed, finally mustering the ability to speak again, having been struck rather dumb by the inexplicable events unfolding before him. "It's _me_."  
  
"You know him?" Lestrade and Donovan asked Sherlock simultaneously, their expressions identically perplexed. John didn't blame them; he was feeling the same way.  
  
Sherlock just gave John that look again. John could see the deductions whirling in his eyes, as if his friend was seemingly attempting to recall where he would have met John. Then, something shifted in his expression, and Sherlock squared his shoulders and looked John in the eye.  
  
"I've never seen this man before in my life."


	2. Got to Be Kidding

"I've never seen this man before in my life."

John resisted the urge to laugh. "Oh, come on. Of course you have. You saw me not two minutes ago, we just got here in a cab. Together."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "No... I believe I would have noticed that."

"Yes we did," John insisted. He chuckled. This had to be a hoax or something. "Look, guys, joke's over alright? Good one. Cut it out now."

But Sherlock, Lestrade, and Donovan just stared at him, blank faces bordering on concern watching him. He shifted under the odd scrutiny.

"What's your name, mate?" Lestrade asked carefully.

"John, but you know that," he replied, bemused. "Lestrade, come on, it's me. This is funny and all, but you got me, alright?"

"Look… John… I don't know you. We've never met." He glanced at Donovan, and a tacit understanding seemed to pass between them. She stepped a bit closer to John as if to lead him away, but he stepped backward in response, evading her.

"Yes we have! We've known each other for years now!" Mild panic was starting to set in. John felt he was pretty good at reading people, and all he saw in their faces was sincerity. They somehow did not know who he was anymore, even though just a moment ago they had all been investigating this case in peace.   
  
"Sherlock," John turned to his flatmate, trying not to sound desperate. "Come on, it's me."  
  
He was staring at John with that horrible look of detachment, though there was perhaps a bit of intrigue, as if John were a strange puzzle he had stumbled upon. He sighed. "As I have already said, we do not know each other."

"Yes we do!"

"How can we?" Sherlock chuckled, crossing his arms. "I've never known an army doctor with a cured psychosomatic limp before. Which was it, by the way, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"You- you already know that!" John sputtered. "It's _me_ , I'm your _flatmate_!"

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised by that statement. "Oh, has Mrs. Hudson rented out that silly extra bedroom without informing me? Is that what this is?"

"N-No, of course not! _You_ invited me to see the flat, years ago! What are you doing? I... It's me," he repeated lamely, unable now to hide his fear and borderline-panic.

Donovan walked over and tugged on his arm. "Look, I'm afraid you're going to have to leave. This is an active crime scene-"

"No, I'm... Wait, no this isn't what you think-! Donovan, let me go!"

She looked thrown and hesitated before they'd gone three steps. "How do you know my last name?"

"I know more than that," John said, glad of some way to prove he was who he said. He didn't know why they were acting this way, but he was going to fix it. "You call Sherlock a freak constantly, mainly because you’re intimidated by his intellect and ability to solve cases faster than all of you put together. And you're sleeping with Anderson, the forensics bloke who’s apparently not here at the moment."

She looked as if John had slapped her. Before she found her voice again, however, John tried to tug away, looking back at Sherlock.

"And you knew those things about me, like my limp and all that, because of deduction. It's a science, you call it. You're the only consulting detective in the world, and you live at 221B Baker Street. We're flatmates, Sherlock, you've known me for ages... Why won’t you believe me? What is going on here?”

They all looked alarmed now, and this time Lestrade helped Donovan pull John away from the crime scene. He struggled half-heartedly, too perturbed to fight back effectively.

"Wait, Sherlock!" he called, desperate, as they pushed him past the other cops, all staring. "The dirt on his shoes! The victim's shoes! The dirt's from the west end! You told me that, seconds ago! How would I know that if I didn't know you?"  
  
"Alright, that's enough," Lestrade pushed him toward the main road. "Go before I arrest you." He turned away, looking shaken. Donovan followed, glancing over her shoulder at John then hurrying after Lestrade.

But John was watching Sherlock, who was staring at him in complete bewilderment. The lack of recognition, or any connection at all, in Sherlock's eyes was the worst part of all this. He looked as though he was explaining John away as some sort of madman, no one significant, no one to be cared about. John tried not to scream in frustration as Sherlock, after Lestrade muttered something to him, turned back to the body. Like John didn't matter, like he truly didn't know him, like it was no problem that he apparently had no flatmate.  
  
Like he didn't miss John now that he was - apparently - not in Sherlock's life. 

What had happened to him? What was going on?  
  
John turned and half-walked, half-ran to the main road.

Therefore he missed seeing Sherlock bend over, examine the victim's shoes for a moment, then stand up abruptly, a few clods of dirt on his gloved palm. Therefore he missed the incredulous, shocked look on Sherlock's face as the consulting detective turned to stare after John, as if wondering, _how had he known?_ And he also missed the faint suspicion that then appeared in Sherlock's eyes. 

 

* * *

 

  
John got to the end of the street in a daze, then paused, running his hands over his face. This was the craziest day of his life, and considering how most of his days go with Sherlock, that was saying something. He pulled out his phone and dialed, praying she'd answer quickly...

"Hello?"  
  
"Mrs. Hudson, thank goodness. It's John."  
  
There was a pause. "Can I help you with something?"  
  
Damn. There was that lack of recognition yet again.  
  
"It's John, don't you...?" He sighed. Why was he even trying anymore? No one seemed to be able to help him or recognize him or tell him what the ruddy hell was going on. "Never mind, I think I have the wrong number. I'm sorry."  
  
"That's alright dear." She sounded like her usual self, though with a painful absence of familiarity.  
  
"Oh, w-wait, just one more thing. Sorry, but do you know a, um, Sherlock Holmes...?"  
  
"Oh, yes, he lives in the flat here I own. Would you like me to inform him you called?"  
  
"No, no, that's fine," he said quickly. There was no need for Sherlock to know John had called; with the luck John had been having, Sherlock would probably see the call as stalking – especially after the crime scene fiasco – and have John arrested. "Thank you."  
  
He hung up and sighed. Well this was working out craptastically. No one knew him, somehow. But how was that possible? He knew them, but how could they suddenly not know him?  
  
But then again… there had been that moment where he'd fallen over, and opened his eyes to find himself on the end of the street again. Maybe this was all some sort of dream, or hallucination, or something, where they really didn't know him.  
  
He pinched his side, wincing, but not waking up. Well, that was lovely. He wasn't dreaming then? Well then what in the name of all that's sane happened?  
  
At that moment, while John was hesitating at the corner, struggling through this existential (or maybe just supernatural) crisis of his, looking for a cab or perhaps a meteor to fall from the sky (because the latter still wouldn't be the strangest thing to happen to him today), a sleek dark car drove up and stopped, idling feet away as if beckoning. John saw it and - for the first time ever in this situation - smiled in relief.  
  
Mycroft.  
  
The car door opened by an unseen occupant at the same moment his phone rang. He answered.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Don't be alarmed. Simply get into the car, Doctor Wats-"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I know the drill." He hung up and climbed into the car immediately, glad _someone_ seemed to know who he was, even if it had to be Sherlock's odd brother. And maybe Mycroft would be able to tell him what was going on.  
  
John was taken to the very same abandoned warehouse where he had first met Mycroft, and when he realized it, he almost laughed. Was this the default location Mycroft brought his victims the first time they entered his brother’s life?  
  
"Doctor John Watson," was the first thing Mycroft said when John was let out of the car and approached the umbrella-bearing man. He was leaning on it as usual, scrutinizing John with that piercing gaze that had never intimidated John as much as he fancied Mycroft hoped it would. Nonetheless, John approached cautiously. So far, so good, but would Mycroft have the answers John needed? Or would he be just as bad as the others?  
  
"Please tell me you know who I am," John said carefully. "Beyond my name."  
  
Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Are you someone worth knowing?"  
  
Ouch. "I like to think so."  
  
"Tell me, Dr. Watson, what is your interest in Sherlock Holmes?" He got right to the point, though he did seem a bit more aggressive than usual.  
  
"My interest," John repeated flatly. It was clear Mycroft didn't think he had a connection with Sherlock either. "I'm Sherlock's flatmate."  
  
"Sherlock has never had a flatmate."  
  
"Yes he has. Me. I've known him for years." John clenched his fists. "You don't believe me either. This is ridiculous. I had hoped you, if no one else, had the facts in order."  
  
Mycroft looked faintly perplexed, which was probably the most uncertain expression John had ever seen on him. He slowly pulled out a small notebook, flicking through the pages. "You were an army doctor?"  
  
"Yes, but you already know that."  
  
"You seem fairly certain of my knowledge. Are you under the impression we have met? For I can assure you, we have not."  
  
John scoffed. He was so over this entire day. "Actually, you'd be wrong. Your name is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. You'd say you have a minor position in the British government, but Sherlock would insist you in fact _are_ the British government. And... You worry about Sherlock, constantly. So anyone who comes into his life who takes more than a fleeting interest in him probably gets dragged here and either threatened or bribed, and at the very least interrogated intensely."  
  
There was a hint of alarm in Mycroft's eyes now, to John's satisfaction. He hadn’t been in control since this whole situation had started, so getting back a bit of sway felt immensely relieving. Mycroft’s hand shifted uncomfortably on the umbrella handle, but John didn't shift his gaze. He smiled slightly.  
  
"I know your brother, Mycroft, I swear. He and I are friends. Well, maybe not here, in whatever parallel universe I've fallen into. So could you please give me some information?"  
  
"Parallel universe?" Mycroft shifted, eyes narrowing. "Is that what you think this is?"  
  
"Well,” John had to chuckle slightly; it did sound ridiculous. “What else could it be? Everything I know, everyone I know, is the same but at the same time, _nothing_ is the same. All my friends… I know who they are, but there’s small changes, and… I just don’t understand what’s happening. You have to believe me, Mycroft. Do I look like I’m lying to you?”

The taller man surveyed him for a few moments, carefully. “I believe you are convinced that what you are saying is true. I do not, however, believe it is the most well-informed idea for you to be around my brother at this time, whether your story proves to be genuine or not. He seems to have been, at the very least, puzzled by you today. I should hate for anything to escalate for him.”

John scowled. “So what, you’re going to take me to some sort of safe house so you can keep an eye on me? I’m not a threat to Sherlock. If you took a moment to let me explain-“

“You have already said you do not know what has truly happened to you. So what is there to explain?” Mycroft’s voice was low, but having known Sherlock for years, John knew that easily could be just as threatening as yelling. More so, actually. “I have no intention of keeping you anywhere against your will. I am no barbarian. You will be taken home shortly.” 

That threw John; where was home, if he was not going to be allowed to go back to Sherlock and Baker Street? “You aren’t going to help me, then? You’re just going to dump me somewhere and let me fend for myself?”  
  
Mycroft shook his head slowly, though a small, almost knowing, smirk had crept onto his face. That smirk, more than anything else he had seen that day, sent a thrill of worry and fear through John. “I have no doubt, Doctor Watson, that you will formulate a plan as to what you will do. And should you find yourself in need of assistance, I will have associates available for you at all times.”

In other words, he’d have stalkers, yeah alright, John said to himself. Great. “Fine,” he said resignedly. It wasn’t really surprising, he supposed.

He’d just go see Sherlock in the morning. If anyone could help him get to the bottom of this, it was Sherlock Holmes. Right?


	3. Worth A Try

John had forgotten how utterly horrid his old flat had been. It was pure misery, with a dash of boredom on top. Mycroft’s creep car had brought him there and dropped him off without a single word from the driver. He’d almost found himself missing that Anthea woman. Alone on the street, John stood staring up at the building. It was rather far from Baker Street, old and tasteless and impersonal and just not home. He sighed and headed for the door anyway, but stopped inches from the knob when he realized he didn’t have the key. Of course he didn’t; it had been years since he had lived here. In his world, at least. Apparently in this one, this hideous place was still his home.

He shook his head. Absolutely nothing was going well for him today. He was stuck inconceivably in some world where no one knew him, with no idea about how he’d gotten there or how to wake up and/or get back to the world where he really belonged. And now he couldn’t even find a decent place to relax for a moment and figure things out, largely because Sherlock wasn’t around to pick the lock of this place.

Sherlock. Well, it was worth a try, right? It wasn’t as if John had anything else to do or any other non-Mycroft options. And what was the worst that could happen?

There were probably a lot of answers to that question, actually, John mused, and few of them were good. Still, he resolutely set off down the street to catch a cab. Mycroft’s people were probably still watching, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. He could deal with Mycroft – the British government wasn’t nearly as terrifying as he tried to be. John was trained and certified in Dealing-With-Holmeses, after all.

Still, what if Sherlock flat-out refused to help him? What was John to do then? He couldn’t stay here in this place. This wasn’t home. He had to find answers, and the only way he could think to do that was enlisting Sherlock, or at least trying to. There was no one better when it came to bizarre scenarios like this one. The only question was how to convince Sherlock to help him.

All at once, the solution came to him. He stopped, turning the idea over in his mind, then smiled slowly. It would have to work. He knew Sherlock. He could pull this off.

And even if he didn’t, it would be worth a try.

 

* * *

 

221B looked… strange. John couldn’t place exactly what had changed, but something definitely had. He wasn’t even inside yet, and he already could tell. Something was wrong, something was different, and he didn’t like it. Nonetheless, Sherlock still lived here, so he squared his shoulders and stepped up resolutely to the door, raising his hand to knock. At the last second, however, he hesitated. Maybe he should call first…? He pulled out his phone, wondering how the detective would react to John showing up unannounced on the doorstep. A phone call would probably be slightly less creepy (though still creepy). John sighed. There was no good way to do this apparently.

As he stood there uncertainly with his phone in his hand, the door suddenly opened, startling him, and he stumbled back. Sherlock stood there, giving him a _look_. And not a nice one. John straightened up and gazed up at him, realizing for the first time – though he really should have noticed at the crime scene – that Sherlock didn’t look all that well. There were dark circles under his eyes, and John was fairly certain the man hadn’t gotten a good meal in several days. He looked generally tired. Yes, something was certainly not right here.

“You again,” Sherlock said after a tense moment, during which they stared each other down, fiercely for Sherlock’s part, resolutely for John’s. “To what do I owe the… pleasure?”

“Listen, I know you have no reason to trust me,” John started, just as he had decided to do in the cab on the way. “But-“

“No, don’t go any further.” Sherlock stepped toward him, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. He stepped down onto the pavement and walked in a slow circle around John, eying him in a way that would have made anyone unaccustomed to the man extremely nervous. John, of course, just stood there and waited it out. He had seen this sort of examination done before plenty of times to potential clients and knew better than to get fidgety or awkward. Sherlock didn’t (usually) bite, after all.

“Yes,” he said before Sherlock could get any words out, once the detective had circled back around to face John. “Except it’s my sister, not my brother. Harry is short for Harriet.”

Sherlock blinked, looking bewildered and perhaps even a bit amazed. “How the-?”

John smiled in spite of himself. “Yes, I was an army doctor, until I was shot in the shoulder. Sent home, saw a therapist for a while. My sister is an alcoholic, and she gave me her phone after she divorced her wife. We aren’t that close, though, so I haven’t really stayed in touch like I think she wanted after I got back. And yes, the limp was psychosomatic, but it’s cured now.”

Before Sherlock could say anything, John continued. He had exactly one shot at this. “You, on the other hand, are the only consulting detective in the world. You’re a high-functioning sociopath, or so you claim, but I think you just don’t give a damn what people think about you, unless you decide to actually care about them, which rarely happens. Your landlady’s husband was a murderer, and you got him sentenced to death in Florida. And you think you’re all that, which can get really tiresome sometimes, especially when you convince yourself that it’s acceptable to stick heads in the fridge, or toes in the bathtub.”

Sherlock’s expression was close to being awed, and John would have felt proud of himself in other circumstances, if it hadn’t been for the look of mistrust that was mixed with the otherwise-satisfying look of astonishment. “So if you really still want to claim I don’t know you, good luck,” John finished, nodding for emphasis.

Sherlock took a moment to reply, swallowing a couple times. “Do you work for… _him_?” His wonder had started to fade slightly, and suspicion was quickly overtaking it in intensity.

Well, that wasn’t exactly the reaction John had been expecting. “For who?”

“You know exactly who I mean,” Sherlock snapped. It seemed John had touched a nerve. “The man behind the serial suicides, and several other crimes I’ve become aware of over the years. You work for him, don’t you?”

John almost gasped. _Moriarty_. “No!” he cried. “Sherlock, I would never-!”

“How would I know?” Sherlock asked challengingly. “As I’ve said, I don’t know you. That man must have provided all that information about me, told you exactly what to say to gain my trust so he could get information on me. I’m the only threat to… whatever his operation is, so of course he would want to have me spied on!”

“Sherlock, I’m not working for-“ He cut himself off; it seemed from the way Sherlock was speaking that he didn’t know Moriarty’s name somehow. If John said it now, it would seem like proof he really did work for him, and that was not at all the way he needed this conversation to turn. “Listen, I’m not working for anyone. I… want to hire you.”

That caught Sherlock’s attention. His eyes flashed in a spark of intrigue, a look John knew well and felt relieved to see. Up until that moment, Sherlock had been like a stranger again. But now, the detective John knew was back. “You have a case for me?”

John nodded. “Just hear me out. If you still don’t trust me after I’m finished, you don’t ever have to see me again.”

Sherlock hesitated. John smiled at him. “Come on, it can’t hurt, right? Just let me explain.”

“Technically it can hurt,” Sherlock said, tone cautious and low. “You could be an assassin.”

That made John chuckle. Sherlock’s distrust, though genuine, was still amusing. “Yeah, that’s true. I could be dangerous. But when has that ever stopped you?”

He waited. After a few seconds, Sherlock almost smiled. “Come in, then.”

The flat was in a state John hadn’t seen since… well, never, actually. There were remnants of old experiments everywhere, and it looked as if the entire place hadn’t been dusted in weeks. He stifled a cough as he entered the sitting room. Almost all the usual things were there, like the skull and the violin and such, but John’s chair looked unwanted, extraneous, unused. And still there was that feeling of something vital missing, like a phantom limb or a half-remembered dream.

Sherlock seemed a bit sheepish as he watched John surveying the flat. It gave John the impression that he hadn’t had visitors in a while, which was strange; _his_ Sherlock had clients every few days or so, every other day if it was a good week. He gestured vaguely around at the chaos, seizing a pile of papers and dropping them onto the table in a surreptitious effort to straighten up without appearing to straighten up. “Excuse the… mess.” He nodded at the chair potential clients always occupied. At least that hadn’t changed. “Sit.”

John obeyed. Sherlock sat in his usual chair and waited, looking expectant. John was about to open his mouth and explain one of the more ludicrous things he’d heard in his life – his new, inexplicable reality – when Sherlock’s phone rang. The detective scowled at the interruption. “Apologies.” He almost sounded sincerely sorry, as if he had actually been looking forward to hearing what John had to say. How long had it been since the man had had a case of his own? “Sherlock Holmes,” he said into the phone. “What are you-? Well, yes, but I thought the _lovely_ Inspector Donovan said… Ah. I see. Well then, I’ll be there shortly.”

He hung up. “That was Lestrade. You… well, I’d say ‘met him,’ but I have a feeling you’ll claim you already know him.”

“Is it about that case with the soil on the guy’s shoes?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes turning thoughtful. “You knew where the soil was from before I did. How?”

“Er… You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, you already know me as well, and therefore somehow about the case. Right. Of course. Still…” He bit his lip, then nodded, as if he had made a decision. “Perhaps you can be of more help. You are a doctor.”

“Are you….? Wait. You just accused me of working for some sort of crime lord. Why are you inviting me along to help you solve a crime neither of us really have a right to be trying to solve?”

Sherlock nearly smiled once again, just a subtle upward tug of one corner of his lip. "Because I have the distinct feeling that you would only get your own cab and follow me to the west end no matter what I did to try to stop you. This way I can keep an eye on you, and we both get where we want."

John chuckled. Sherlock's almost-smile was gone, hidden away, in an instant as he stood and grabbed his coat and scarf again from their discarded place on the sofa. However, when John didn’t move he glanced back, an eyebrow quirking up. "So… You’ve seen a bit of the case already. Want to see some more?"

"Oh God yes," John said and stood up, following Sherlock out the door. Sherlock’s back was to John as they went down the stairs and exited the flat, so he missed that tentative smile return to the detective’s face.


	4. Interview and Negotiation

“So,” John said as the cab turned off Baker Street. “What’s with Donovan?”  
  
“She hates me,” Sherlock replied with a slight shake of the head. “Especially since the cab driver fiasco.”  
  
John frowned. “What cab driver fiasco?” If Sherlock was referring to what John thought he was, then he had to be talking about… “Do you mean the serial suicides? The ones in the papers?” he added, to make it seem as if he hadn’t known the case quite bloody intimately the first time.  
  
Sherlock nodded. “After the sixth-“  
  
“Wait, what?” John stammered. There had only been four… “Six?”  
  
“Yes, six,” Sherlock looked at him askance. “After we found the sixth and seventh bodies together, the press was in an uproar. Lestrade and I, since we were the ones at the head of the investigation, were of course the ones condemned by the Chief Superintendent. Donovan ended up being promoted after she managed to apparently scare off the killer, and thus Lestrade was demoted to avoid an even larger fuss from the press for his inability to find the one responsible.”

John was still reeling with confusion. “What happened to you then?” And what about the pink phone? And the cabbie, would he have died? Sherlock had told him once the man was terminally ill. That would be why the killings had stopped, not Donovan intimidating him…

“I had a lead for a time, but I ended up being unable to trace its location. It seems the killer had switched it off, or destroyed it.” Sherlock scowled, sounding as if he were talking to himself more than to John. It was obvious to John, who knew the other version of him so well, that Sherlock was still frustrated by failing to find the killer.

“’It?’” John echoed. “Was it a phone… or something?”  
  
“Phone, yes,” Sherlock nodded. “Belonging to the fourth victim. I realized the killer had taken it, and tried to find it in order to find him, but it was a dead end. So we never found who was responsible.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” John said sincerely. “But what about you? Donovan acted as if you weren’t allowed at the crime scene. Did you get suspended for a while when Lestrade was demoted?”

“More than that.” Sherlock glanced at him, and John caught a bit of regret in his eyes, carefully hidden but still visible to John. “I’m no longer permitted, officially, to consult on cases with Scotland Yard. Lestrade broke the rules by calling me in today, but I think he and Donovan could use the help. As always.”  
  
John chuckled. There were differences, sure, and he still was virtually a stranger, but suddenly it was as if John was with the same old Sherlock, insulting the official investigators of a case. However, it did strike him as odd that Sherlock had just told him all that. “Why would you say all this? To me? I could be spying on you, remember?”  
  
“I know. Don’t believe I trust you, because I don’t. But I do believe you are not a good liar, so if you really were spying on me for a crime lord, you wouldn’t exactly be doing a stellar job at it.” He smirked slightly, looking away. “Your motive for being here is something else. I just haven’t decided what it is yet. I’ll keep you around a bit longer.”

John smiled. Much of the panic he’d felt earlier had worn off, replaced by curiosity. There was a case to be solved, after all, though Sherlock’s new state of almost-unemployment was perhaps more intriguing. Being banned from Scotland Yard was one thing, but it did not explain why the consulting detective was without any private consulting. He usually depended on private cases as much (sometimes more than) Scotland Yard cases. So why had he evidently not had a client in what appeared to be a substantial amount of time?

He was lost in these thoughts for a while, though he was continually distracted by Sherlock’s constant gaze that remained fixed on him. John tried not to look back at him, though he assumed the man was simply trying to conjure up a reasonable explanation for John’s presence and extensive knowledge of Sherlock’s life. So John, uncomfortable under the close scrutiny of the man he knew in some other dimension, kept his own gaze out the window.

They finally arrived at the west end, by which time John’s thoughts had drifted unwittingly from Sherlock to the case. The dirt on his shoes was bothering him.  
  
“The dirt,” Sherlock said abruptly, as he opened the door to the cab, apparently thinking along the same lines as John. “It was only on his shoes, but nowhere on the crime scene itself. So that means-“  
  
“He was moved after he was killed,” John finished excitedly, smiling as he realized what Sherlock was about to say, as he followed him out onto the street. “Brilliant.”  
  
Sherlock almost stopped in his tracks, turning a surprised gaze onto John, as if astounded at receiving a compliment. He only paused for a moment, though, before walking on, slowing to allow John to fall into step next to him. John noticed he was blushing slightly, and something tugged at his heart then. Back in John’s real world, Sherlock took John and his compliments for granted, so this uncertainty and surprise was a breath of fresh air, if a bit bittersweet. He really wasn’t home. 

“What are we doing here, Lestrade?” Sherlock asked as they approached the DI – or rather, DS now – John had to correct himself.  
  
“Good question,” he replied, raising an eyebrow at John. “What’s he doing here?”  
  
“He’s with me,” Sherlock said calmly, obviously not intending to continue the conversation beyond that. “Now why call us here?”  
  
“We’ve been asking around the area to see if the victim could be identified, since you said the dirt on his shoes was from here,” Lestrade said, and John gaze Sherlock a look as if to say _told you so_ , to which he received a _shut_ _up_ sort of look in response. “Several people identified him as the owner of this bakery here, Jeremy McClain. It looks like we found the real crime scene, and the sister is here. She lives here with her brother and came home to find this. We got the call from dispatch about her just as we started showing around his picture. Thought you’d want in on the interview, give you something to do for once.”

And again, John had to wonder what on earth Sherlock did with his time, if he was not taking any cases like he suspected. Still, he kept his mouth shut as the three of them headed into the store. Inside, they found what was unmistakably the site of a nasty crime, and probably of the murder too. The store was in shambles, the glass of the display case scattered all over the space, mingling with the sad smashed remains of cakes and pastries and bloodstains. On the floor behind the counter, there was a huge splatter of blood and a hand mixer, which had one of the beaters broken.

“Murder weapon?” John couldn’t help asking, even though he knew this Sherlock wasn’t used to his participation.

Still, Sherlock nodded as he knelt, examining the beater closely. “Were there any witnesses, Lestrade?”  
  
“No, and the sister says she doesn’t know of anyone who would have wanted to hurt her brother. She’s upstairs, and she’s pretty shaken, so if you want to talk to her, I’d go easy.”

“Are you implying I am entirely insensitive?” Sherlock asked, his eyes rolling. He stood and gave the scene a quick once-over again.

“I’m implying it’s been a while since you had to do this, so maybe let me lead,” Lestrade replied sternly. “Donovan is outside, so we should be quick if you want to get out of here without handcuffs on.”

“Your rebellion is amusing, Lestrade, I’ll give you that,” Sherlock commented with a small smile as he and John followed him up the stairs to the flat.

“Sherlock,” John muttered out of habit. “We’re at a crime scene, remember? Maybe try to be a little more solemn.”  
  
Sherlock frowned back at him, and John remembered this wasn’t his Sherlock. This was someone else, someone who seemed a bit lost, though John couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. He shut his mouth. He couldn’t be Sherlock’s filter/moral compass if the man didn’t want him to, especially since Sherlock still didn’t trust him and was trying to reach some sort of conclusion concerning John and why he was here. So he stayed silent as they reached the flat and found a young woman sitting on a chair, looking shaken.

However, John barely heard anything she said. He couldn’t stop watching Sherlock. The man looked so tired, and so stressed, to an extent John was unaccustomed to even in him. He couldn’t push away the burning disquiet in his gut; he couldn’t shake the feeling that Sherlock really needed… something. There was something missing from his friend. It was like seeing an old picture of someone from before you met them, and they looked… incomplete.

The gist of the conversation with Jeremy McClain’s sister, Lucille, turned out to be that she had come home from working an overnight shift and found the bakery trashed, her brother’s body on the floor. She’d called the police and tried to see if anything had been stolen – nothing had. Sherlock had snidely replied that it couldn’t have possibly been a robbery; a simple robber would not have bothered to move the body to the opposite end of the city. This was premeditated, obviously. It was likely the brother had done something idiotic to annoy someone and been killed in his own cake mix. Lucille McClain did not take this well.

“You did kind of ask for it,” John muttered a few minutes later as he watched Sherlock massaging his cheek gingerly. It was still pink and probably smarting from Lucille’s rather impressive slap. She packed quite a punch for a woman of barely one hundred pounds.

Sherlock gave him an annoyed look. John looked away quickly. Lestrade dragged them back downstairs, leaving a uniformed officer with Lucille. “So she didn’t have much to help us,” he said ruefully. “But at least we have a tentative time of death. She was gone from 10:30 to around eight this morning, so Jeremy was attacked and killed between them. We’ll ask the neighbors to see if they heard anything, then see what the medical examiner-“

He froze, glancing over his shoulder. Sally was outside, talking with several of the proprietors of the shops nearby, but it seemed she was finishing up with the interviews. “You two better leave,” Lestrade said, pointedly ignoring Sherlock’s responding scowl. “She’ll have all our heads if she sees you two here.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock groaned imploringly, sounding for all the world like a child. The DI just sighed and shook his head like he was far too used to hearing that tone from the petulant consulting detective.

“No, I’m sorry Sherlock. Rules are rules, and Sally’s not going to break them for anyone. Not even your brother, Mr. Downing Street. She was pretty firm about it last time you tried to pull that card,” he added quickly when Sherlock opened his mouth to reply. “And after this morning…”

“Fine. Keep me apprised,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, looking put out as he turned. He headed for a side door leading to an alley, and John quickly darted after him. There was no way he was letting Sherlock out of his sight.

“Mr. Downing Street?” John echoed. Had he heard that right? Was Mycroft…?

“You’re following me,” was all Sherlock said over his shoulder as he strode confidently past the cordoned off section of road, coat billowing behind him like an ostentatious cape.

“You said I could earlier,” John pointed out. “Where are we going now?"  
  
Sherlock gaze him a look askance. “What makes you think you’re invited?”

“You already admitted you’re curious about me,” John smiled disarmingly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So come on, I don’t think you’re going to let this case go, are you?”

“Of course not. That woman, Lucille, mentioned her other brother during the interview, didn’t you hear? I wonder what Cole McClain has to say about his brother’s life.”

He headed off toward an intersecting road, John having to hurry to keep up with his annoyingly long strides. “And how are you going to find this Cole McClain?”

Sherlock smirked and held up a small black book. “Nicked the victim’s address book.” 

“From the crime scene?” John bit back a scolding comment, knowing he’d just get that _look_ again. Well, Sherlock would be Sherlock, he supposed, and settled for just shaking his head. “Okay, so let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Cole McClain was apparently not at home, much to Sherlock’s apparent chagrin. He stood in front of the door of the flat, a frustrated expression on his tired-looking face. John waited for his pout to lessen, then sighed. “We can always text Lestrade the address, see what the real police find out from Cole later.”

“I suppose.” Sherlock stepped back and turned his penetrating gaze, once again, to John. “So. Hungry?”  
  
“Starving,” John replied, suddenly realizing how true that was. He hadn’t had anything but a cup of coffee all day, and really should eat something soon. Sherlock nodded, and off they went again.

To John’s surprise, they didn’t go to Angelo’s. He wasn’t sure why this came as a surprise, since Sherlock wasn’t doing much to encourage John to be his friend, but it still felt strange to go somewhere with his sort-of-flatmate that wasn’t a usual haunt of theirs. They ended up instead at some restaurant called Simpson’s, which John had never heard of.

“So out with it,” Sherlock said once they were seated and served drinks. “How do you know so much about me, about my life, Mr…?”

Ah, of course. That was why Sherlock was still tolerating him. He was still curious about the case John claimed he had, or maybe just about John in general. However, unlike earlier, John felt a twinge of doubt. Being sucked into some other universe wasn’t exactly something Sherlock was likely to be able to help with, and John didn’t even know if Sherlock would believe him. Mycroft “apparently-the-bloody-Prime-Minister Holmes” hadn’t believed him, after all. What made him sure Sherlock would?

Frustrated with his cowardice, John sighed. “It’s Doctor, actually, Watson. I can… see things. I look at someone, and I just… know.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You’re a terrible liar, Doctor John Watson. And you are not a psychic.”

John grimaced slightly. He hadn’t expected that to work anyway. “Look… It’s kind of a long story.”

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow and waited. John sighed. “Fine.”

He explained as succinctly as he could without leaving any important details out. He told Sherlock how they – in the other dimension – had met and become flatmates over the course of a single conversation, then explained briefly how they had gone to a crime scene that morning and John had gotten suddenly lightheaded, nearly fallen, then found himself here. Here, where nothing was quite the same. By the time he finished, their food had arrived and Sherlock’s expression of skepticism could not become more pronounced if John told him he also flew unicorns for a living.

“I know you think this is mad. Believe me, I do too. But how else can you explain me knowing so much about you? About your work?”

“Oh, there are plenty of explanations that are actually feasible,” Sherlock replied, crossing his arms and pointedly ignoring his meal in favor of glaring challengingly at John.

“Like what?”

His lips tightened. “I’m still working on it.”

John bit back a smile. “Look, I get it,” he said, voice as earnest as he could manage. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t trust me either. But I’m asking you for help. And the Sherlock I know, he wouldn’t refuse a case, an impossible case, like this. He’d want to solve this, discover the truth. It’s not in him to admit he doesn’t know something.”

“Well,” Sherlock said slowly, eyeing him with a still highly-mistrustful gaze. “Can you pay for my services?"

That hadn’t been the response John had been expecting. “Well, yeah, I guess. Of course.”

Sherlock nodded. Suddenly, things started to make sense. Lestrade’s comment that Sherlock didn’t have much to do, how the flat looked as if it hadn’t seen a broom or a client in ages, the way Sherlock had glanced almost self-consciously at his wallet when they had sat down at the table. No Scotland Yard cases meant no publicity, which meant no private cases. And no one ever went to Sherlock’s website, so of course no one would know about him that way. John’s blog was one of the main ways people found out about the detective, and without that, Sherlock had even fewer opportunities for work. It was no wonder he looked so stressed and tired. Was he about to lose 221B?

“One condition though,” John added, suddenly desperately wanting to say something else, to be able to stay with Sherlock, and not be left to wait until Sherlock got the investigation underway. “You let me tag along for the rest of Jeremy McClain’s case.”

Sherlock considered for a moment, brow furrowed. John waited patiently, but just as the detective opened his mouth to reply, his phone buzzed. He blinked, startled, and grabbed it.

“Lestrade is letting me in on a meeting with the father. He’s a rich banker of some sort.” Sherlock stood. He’d only eaten about three bites, but John just rolled his eyes. “Are you coming?”

“So that’s a yes then? You’ll accept my condition?” John felt relieved.  
  
Sherlock sighed. “Yes, yes, now come on. We won’t have DI Donovan to deal with, but I’d still like to leave now. Lestrade hates it when I get places before he does.”


	5. Pastry Networking

Stephen McClain’s work was one of the most ostentatious banks John had ever seen. It was full of examples of people who clearly had too much money to spend on interior decorating. He had been fairly sure one of the paintings in the lobby was an original Degas… Unfortunately, Sherlock didn’t stop to gape at the décor, and therefore neither did John. He had to speed-walk to keep up with the eager detective, who darted through the third floor reception area just as Lestrade emerged from an elevator.

“How did you get here so fast?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock looked smug. “Doesn’t matter. Where is this Stephen McClain?”

“Supposed to be waiting in that office there,” Lestrade nodded at a glass-walled room, with large windows overlooking the London skyline. A gray-haired man in a suit stood facing it, head bowed. John followed Lestrade and Sherlock inside, and the man turned to face them. He looked pale and had dark circles under his eyes, not that John was surprised. He had just learned his son was dead; anyone would look bad.

“Stephen McClain, thanks for taking the time to talk to us,” Lestrade said.

He nodded rather distractedly, running his fingers through his hair. “Anything I can do to help. Do you have any suspects yet? Do you know who killed my son?”  
  
“Not yet, but we’re getting there,” Lestrade replied. Stephen gestured for them to sit, and they all did so, John taking his cues from Sherlock, who seemed to have decided staying quiet and just listening was a better plan than speaking and upsetting the father like he had upset the sister Lucille.

“Do you know if your son had any enemies?” Lestrade asked.

“He was a baker,” Stephen chuckled softly. “He gave the leftover pastries to the homeless. He didn’t have any enemies, no. Of course not.”  
  
“No money troubles?”  
  
“No, no. I always told him I could help him with anything like that. I’m not exactly struggling.” He gestured around the room, and John had to agree. In fact, was that a Van Gogh…?

As Lestrade was about to open his mouth again for another question, Sherlock stood up abruptly. Everyone looked at him, startled.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade raised his eyebrows.  
  
“Inspec- Sergeant, I think we’ll be going,” he said shortly, and something about his body language made John tense and stand as well. “I don’t think there’s anything more I can learn from Mr. McClain here.”  
  
“You don’t want to stay for the rest of the interview?”

“No, no, you’re doing adequately on your own. Good day,” he nodded to Stephen McClain, then Lestrade, and swept out of the room. John and Lestrade exchanged a mildly bewildered look, then John hurried after the consulting detective.

“What was that?” John asked, confused as he squeezed through the elevator doors an instant before they shut between him and Sherlock. “The man barely said a dozen words. Why are you leaving already?”  
  
“You don’t know my methods,” Sherlock scoffed slightly.

John raised his eyebrows. “So you think. Look, why not stay the rest of the interview? He might know something, or have some helpful information-“  
  
“He doesn’t know anything, he doesn’t know who killed his son. Staying any longer in that frankly useless interview would only have lessened our chances of finding Jeremy McClain’s killer.”

“Right, because we have so many leads,” John muttered. He looked over at Sherlock, who was hurriedly scrawling something on a pad of paper that looked suspiciously like… “Did you take that from his office?”

Sherlock looked up, a feigned expression of innocence on his face. “Of course not,” he said, sounding affronted. “Stealing from a man who just lost his son… I’m not a monster.” He glanced to the side. “I did take it from the receptionist’s desk though.”  
  
“When? You know what, never mind. It doesn’t matter.” John shook his head, unable to hide a small smile. Sherlock, upon seeing it, immediately dropped his gaze back to the notepad, as if uncomfortable with the friendliness. John, however, kept his eyes on him until the elevator doors opened, wondering what had made this Sherlock the way he was.

“So,” he said tentatively as they left the building. “Now what?”  
  
“Now… have you got any cash?”

“Uh… yeah, why?”

Sherlock smirked. “We’re going to give pastries to the homeless.”

 

* * *

 

Well, it wasn’t just pastries. Coffee too, as it turned out. John spent the rest of the afternoon following Sherlock all around London, watching as he handed coffee and various danishes – bought and paid for by John, thank you very much – to people John assumed were members of Sherlock’s homeless network. John had never gotten to know them, but the conspiratorial nods they gave to Sherlock as he would approach them told him his suspicions were right. And included with the gifts of caffeine and sustenance, usually in the cardboard sleeve of the drink or tucked in with the wax paper cover of the food, were scraps of paper from the purloined notepad. Try as John might, he hadn’t been able to see what any of the notes said. Nor was he able to get it out of Sherlock what his theory was that had caused them to bail out of the interview with Stephen McClain so unexpectedly. 

Finally, after ages of traipsing across the city, when the sun was set well below the London skyline and John was beginning to wonder where he was going to sleep that night, Sherlock seemed to have finished his work. Just as well, John didn’t have much money left, barely enough for a single cab ride. (Since he figured Sherlock would make him pay for it; some things apparently never changed, no matter what dimension you happen to be in.)

“Here,” John shoved one of the last two pastries into Sherlock’s hands. “You hardly touched your lunch, and that was hours ago now.” The final one he kept for himself, pulling back the crinkled wrapping and taking a bite of the flaky, jam-covered contents.

Sherlock, who had finished a coffee of his own a while ago, eyed the food in his hand with distaste. “I’m fine.”

“No you’re not. You need to eat. Even a brilliant genius like you needs more than coffee to keep his transport functioning properly.” John settled down onto a bench. They had made their way to Regent’s park over the course of their odyssey, and he was glad for a chance to sit down after so much walking. Sherlock remained standing, looking at John as if trying to solve a particularly difficult crossword puzzle.

“A brilliant genius,” Sherlock repeated, voice soft. “Is that what you think of me?”  
  
John paused in his chewing to consider that. Of course he did. This Sherlock wasn’t exactly _his_ Sherlock, but he wasn’t any less intelligent, any less amazing. “Yeah, I do,” he replied simply.

There it was again, the _look_. Like Sherlock had never heard anyone say anything like that before. John had caught sight of that same look briefly when they’d arrived at the bakery crime scene to talk to Lucille, but here it seemed more intense, more obvious.

It made John’s heart clench. This man had been kicked out of his main consulting job, therefore losing most of his chances to find other clients, and every time he tried to help the Yard after that, he was either ridiculed or forcibly removed or both. The only one who was ever somewhat supportive to him was Lestrade, but even he wasn’t exactly in a position to help Sherlock keep his livelihood. And the little conversation John had had with his sort-of flatmate today wasn’t much, but it did tell him Sherlock hadn’t exactly had an easy time lately.

And judging from his reaction to John’s compliments… When was the last time Sherlock had heard anything kind?

Sherlock bit his lip, that look of bittersweet surprise at being noticed still lingering in his eyes. “Thank you.” He glanced away then, and John took pity on him and did so as well. He did notice Sherlock take a bite of the pastry, however.

A cool breeze rustled the trees, and John shivered, pulling his coat tighter around him and downing the last swallow of his coffee. It was getting dark, and the temperature was dropping. He had better get home soon. Well, to that awful old flat, at least. Maybe he could ask Sherlock to pick the lock for him…?

“Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?”

The sudden question startled John out of his train of thought. “Um… why?” he asked stupidly, too surprised by what he thought might be an offer to stay over to give a proper answer.

“Because you clearly are nearly ready to go home, but the thought of it makes you uncomfortable. Either you don’t want to leave me alone or you don’t want to return to wherever you live. I know you believe, in some alternate universe,” his tone sounded tremendously dubious as he spoke those last words. “That you and I are flatmates. Therefore here, your home would be different than there, and judging from your expression a moment ago, not as familiar as 221B.”

John shook his head, smiling. “You know, it’s amazing how you can read minds like that.”

Sherlock ducked his head; John couldn’t tell in the low light if he was hiding a smile or not. “Are you asking me if I want to stay over?”

“I suppose,” Sherlock nodded, the might-have-been-a-smile look gone. “I can indulge your delusions for one night.”

“Still don’t believe me?” John chuckled as he stood and fell into step with Sherlock, who had turned to head out of the park.

“Well, it’s either believe your utterly insane tale of whimsy, or keep thinking you’re a spy sent by a criminal to insert yourself into my life. At least with the former there’s more amusement and less watching my back to see if you’re going to stab me.”

John laughed. “Fair enough.”

They walked in silence for a minute, then John glanced at him. “What makes you so sure some web of criminals is interested in you? You got fired from Scotland Yard. Don’t take this the wrong way, but why should a criminal mastermind think you’re a threat now?”  
  
“My brother is in a position of power,” Sherlock replied after a beat. “He has connections in the government few have because of it. I believe his ambition was always to go higher in the ranks, but when it comes to ambitions and actual motivation to do something to achieve those ambitions, he is sorely unbalanced. It could be this particular criminal is interested in me because of him, or perhaps he just believes my intellect to be a threat.”

_Humble as always_ , John thought affectionately but didn’t say. “How do you know about him then?”  
  
“When one works to find and eliminate the class of criminal I seek, one hears things sometimes. Just something that comes up if you infiltrate the right syndicate or have a homeless asset positioned in the right alley.” Sherlock glanced at him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” He looked perplexed at himself and looked away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

John smiled. “Well, if it makes you feel better, if I were spying on you, I’d probably know why he was interested in you. I wouldn’t have to ask.”

“I suppose.”

They didn’t speak again until they had reached the flat, where Sherlock self-consciously straightened a few papers and files and John set about making tea. It took him a moment to realize what he was doing, and even then, he only realized it was odd when he noticed Sherlock staring at him from the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room.

“Oh, right, sorry. I forgot I don’t technically… live here.” It was bizarre, no other word for it. The kettle was the same, the tea was exactly where it always was. John’s favored cup wasn’t there, of course, along with a few other things, but for the most part, it felt like _home_. Knowing it wasn’t was… unsettling.

Sherlock shook his head, looking part-amused, part-bemused. “It’s alright. I’d say make yourself at home, but…” He trailed off, and actually smiled while meeting John’s eyes.

John grinned. “So,” he said as he picked up the kettle and prepared the tea (decaf, because he’d already had a coffee not a half hour ago). “Do you want to tell me why we left Stephen McClain’s interview so fast?”

He added milk and sugar to Sherlock’s tea, just milk to his, and then turned to hand the former off. Sherlock looked at it in bafflement, took a sip, and then shook his head as if he were giving up trying to understand John’s depth and breadth of knowledge about him. John just waited, sipping his own tea to hide the smile fighting its way onto his face.

“I realized, like I said earlier, that he doesn’t know anything useful about who might have killed his son. I did notice, however, something I’m mildly surprised you did not.”

John frowned. “What?”  
  
“He was pale,” Sherlock replied. “He looked as if he hadn’t slept, fatigued.”

“He just found out his son was killed overnight. Did you expect him to look amazing?”

“He’d quite obviously vomited that morning.”

“Like I said, he just learned his son was murdered…”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “He kept running his hands through his hair, like he was self-conscious about it.”

“So?” John said. “He’s an older guy… He might just be worried about it thinning.”

“It wasn’t just thinning, John. When he ran his hand through it a second time, I saw a bit come away in his fingers. It’s quite severe hair loss, and I think I know why.”  
  
John stared at him. The pieces were starting to fall together. “He’s sick,” he murmured. “Fatigue, vomiting… _hair_ _loss_. _Oh_.”

Sherlock nodded. “He’s been going through chemotherapy for a while now. It doesn’t appear he’s told anyone at work or in his family about it yet, though. Probably worried about not being able to work. I saw the state of his desk – he’s a workaholic. He would hate to have to leave because he’s sick. It explains why he was so self-conscious about his hair; he doesn’t want anyone to find out.”

“So what does his being sick have to do with any of this? You already said you don’t think he knows anything about Jeremy’s murder.”

“I _know_ he doesn’t know anything,” Sherlock corrected. “But I think his sickness has absolutely everything to do with Jeremy’s murder.”


	6. The Human Element

Sherlock, frustratingly, refused to elaborate on his point. He insisted he needed to do a bit more research before he could be sure of his theory about Stephen McClain’s sickness. So John found himself upstairs in his bedroom-that-wasn’t-exactly-his-bedroom while Sherlock bustled about downstairs, presumably doing research, calling mysterious contacts, and waiting for the homeless network to get in touch with whatever their information was. John took his shoes and coat off and crawled into bed fully dressed – not that he had much choice; no other clothes.

It had been the maddest day of his life, and walking all over London on top of being sucked into another plane of existence had been downright exhausting. Was it really just that morning he had taken a shower and been worried about the toe experiment? It felt like weeks had gone by… He fell back onto the bed and sighed, flopping his arm over his face. Maybe it was all a very detailed, _very_ corporeal dream, and when he woke up in the morning everything would be back to normal. He would be living in 221B for real, Lestrade and Mycroft would have the jobs their dedication and abilities deserved, and Sherlock would know – even if no one but John ever told him so – that he was _extraordinary_.

Footsteps startled him, and he looked up to find Sherlock in the doorway. “Yeah?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” he said, not quite meeting John’s eyes. “Would that bother you?”

John smiled. “As long as it’s actual music? Not a problem.”

Sherlock nodded. “Alright.” And then he was gone again, bounding down the stairs to continue doing whatever it was he was doing. It was nice, John mused, to see him energetic. When John had confronted him outside the flat earlier he hadn’t been like this. It appeared all he had needed was a good case (coupled with the impossible puzzle of John’s predicament) for the wild enthusiasm John was so accustomed to seeing in him to come flooding back.

And to think this morning he had been angry with Sherlock about his experiments, and generally frustrated with his flatmate’s eccentricities. Now he just saw them as Sherlock’s passions, the things that made Sherlock who he was. Seeing Sherlock in a world where those passions had been so close to gone, so tamped down by stress and lack of work… it had woken John up.

Maybe someday, if he ever got home, he’d have a chance to apologize to his Sherlock.

John chuckled to himself, thinking about this Sherlock’s words to him a few moments ago.

_“I play the violin when I’m thinking.”_

“And sometimes you don’t talk for days,” he murmured, still chuckling. “I know.”

_I know, Sherlock. And I wouldn’t have you any other way_.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, following a night during which he had only been woken from sleep once by some sort of gavotte, John came downstairs to find the flat utterly transformed from the state he’d seen it in just the day before. The previously-ubiquitous dust was as if it had never been, there was some sort of purple concoction bubbling over a Bunsen burner in the kitchen, and several files and pictures were spread all over the table in the unoccupied sitting room. John looked around, unable to keep a smile off his face. This was more like it. He had a feeling that if there were toes in the bathtub now, he wouldn’t say a word against it.

Because _this_ was the Sherlock he knew.

Now if only this Sherlock knew just how fascinating, maddening, and wonderful that was.

He glanced around at the mess of files in front of him, and froze. There on the corner of the table, open as if Sherlock had just been reading it, was a file on him. His picture, one from his days in the army, gazed up at him. Slightly trepidatious, he picked it up and examined it.

Captain John H. Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, yeah that was him. Invalided, old news. Current residence, yeah that rubbish flat. Employment… well shit.

Why the bloody hell was he _unemployed_? What had he done?

He scanned the file, incredulous, looking for some reasonable explanation. He found it in seconds, unfortunately. Several words jumped out at him from the middle of the page, and he felt dread trickle down his spine.

“Trauma”… “Therapy ongoing”… “Depression” … “Severe PTSD.”

Unbidden, John’s knee sent a dull jolt of pain up his leg. “Cut it out,” he hissed, glancing down. “You’re fine. Just because the other me isn’t-“

“Ah John, you’re awake. Excellent,” Sherlock’s voice came from his bedroom, and John turned quickly to find him with his hair in disarray, a pencil stuck behind his ear, and yet another file in his hands. He brushed past John as he headed through the sitting room, still talking. “I knew it – the cancer is indeed terminal, but he only found that out a week ago. I had Lestrade go talk to him again this morning, specifically about his illness, so the theory is confirmed.”

“Wait, hang on,” John accused and held up the file, not really wanting to discuss the case at the moment. “What is this? How did you get this?”

Sherlock looked up at his face, down at the file in his hands, then back up. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and swallowed. “My brother.”

“The Prime Minister can perform background checks on just anyone?” John asked challengingly.

“I… he… no,” Sherlock stammered for half a second, looking rather ashamed to have been caught out. “He knows people who can perform them for him.”  
  
“Why are you poking about in my private life?”  
  
“In my defense,” Sherlock backed up a bit as John took a step forward. “You know a lot more about me than I know about you. I rather wanted to try to close that gap a bit. That’s all.”  
  
John paused, thinking. He didn’t know why it should upset him so much that Sherlock was trying to learn about him. In his own world, Sherlock knew what this file said already, had known it all within about a day. Why should this Sherlock be any different? Because if Sherlock Holmes was anything, he was careful. If he really did suspect John of spying on him for Moriarty, of course he would want a background check. John had just spent the night in _his_ _home_ , after all. He could hardly blame him.

He sighed and stepped back again. “Sorry, you’re right. You’re just being cautious. I get it.”

“I meant no disrespect,” Sherlock said, though he looked as if it hadn’t occurred to him until an instant ago that it might be a bit disrespectful to get background checks on people without their permission.

“Yeah, I know,” John glanced down at the file again. “It was just… unexpected, I guess, seeing my life laid out like this in a few pieces of paper. And it’s not even my life, not exactly.”

Sherlock nodded. “So you say.” He stood still for a few moments, just gazing at John. “My brother called and warned me to be careful around you.”

John raised his eyebrows. “He did?”

“Yes,” Sherlock shook his head. “He doesn’t trust anyone he doesn’t quite understand, especially if they find themselves in my company.”

“What did you tell him?” John remembered the previous day, how Mycroft had implicitly but unmistakably told John to stay far away from his brother, and hoped the elder Holmes wasn’t planning on having John ejected from the premises. He was surprised he had survived this long without that happening, now that he thought about it.

“I told him what I usually tell him when he tries to stick his nose in,” Sherlock smirked, and John was fairly certain what the “usual” thing was. “I can take care of myself. If you really are planning on stabbing me in the back, I can handle it.”

John smiled. Sherlock seemed as if he were about to return it, but then he just held out his hand for the file, movements reticent. “May I?”

John handed it over obligingly. Sherlock had nearly photographic memory, but John knew that sometimes it helped him make deductions if he could physically see the paper or object rather than relying on memory alone. Or maybe he hadn’t gotten around to reading the file yet.

“PTSD,” was all Sherlock said after just a few seconds, then flipped the folder closed and set it down on the table.

“Yeah,” John said. “Apparently.”  
  
“Not true then?”  
  
“Not for _me_ , but maybe for… me,” he gestured to the file at the last word. Sherlock nodded, still appearing skeptical. “At home, or what have you, my therapist thought it was PTSD for a while, but really it’s…” He chuckled self-deprecatingly. “It’s going to sound mental, but…”  
  
Sherlock watched him with engaged eyes. “What?”  
  
“I missed it.” John shifted. “Not the war, the violence, but I did miss the…”  
  
“Adrenaline?” Sherlock asked slowly.

“I guess, yeah. Something like that.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully. “You are a very unique person, John Watson.”

John smiled. “That’s not what you usually call me, but I’ll take it.” Before Sherlock could reply, he leaned over the table. “So, are you going to tell me how Stephen McClain’s cancer has ‘absolutely everything’ to do with the murder of his son, or not?”

“Right,” Sherlock reached over and grabbed another file. “I may not work for Scotland Yard anymore, but sometimes having the Prime Minister as your brother has its benefits.” He froze. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

John laughed. “My lips are sealed.”

Sherlock gaze him the smallest of smiles. “So Stephen McClain’s cancer is terminal, like I said, but he only found that out a week ago. The chemotherapy may hold it off for a while, but it would only be delaying the inevitable, really. So naturally, the first thing one would do in that situation, assuming you’re a practical, business-minded man like him…”

“Arrange matters for after you’re gone?” John asked, glancing over the medical file in Sherlock’s hands.

The detective nodded. “Yes, more specifically, update your will.”

John narrowed his eyes, thinking. “So… what’s this got to do with Jeremy’s murder?”  
  
“Stephen McClain is the bank’s CEO, so he’s got more money than I’ll see in two lifetimes, three at this rate. He’s probably made arrangements for who is to take over in his stead, but the more compelling part of his will is likely to be who ends up with his massive inheritance.”

“And Jeremy would probably end up with it.”

“Well, part of it at least,” Sherlock nodded. “Lucille and their brother Cole will likely get portions as well.”

“Sherlock, are you thinking… what I think you’re thinking?”  
  
“Probably.”

“You think Lucille or Cole killed Jeremy for the money? So their share of their father’s fortune would be larger?”  
  
“It makes sense, does it not?” Sherlock said.

John exhaled. “Okay, sure. But then which of them did it? And wait, we don’t even know if you’re right. The will might stipulate very specific, fixed amounts to each of his children. This theory might go nowhere.”

“That’s why I just texted Lestrade my theory. He’s to call Mr. McClain to confirm this.” Sherlock sat down on the sofa. “All we have to do is wait to see what he says, then wait to see if Lestrade finds Lucille or Cole guilty. He’ll go question them next should the theory prove correct.” He leaned back and sighed. “It’s a shame really, this case could have been so much more exciting. It’s barely a six.”

“Surprised you left the flat for it.” John took a seat in his usual chair. “Don’t you only leave for sevens and higher only?”

“Usually, but not under the circumstances.” Sherlock didn’t elaborate, and John knew better than to push it. He knew Sherlock had money troubles, the man himself having alluded to it not a minute before, but he sensed it wasn’t something Sherlock wanted to talk about. He seemed rather ashamed of it. Ashamed, and lonely. John found himself thinking suddenly that if he was doomed to be stuck in this universe for the rest of his life, at least he could help Sherlock. At least he could be here for him.

They sat in silence for a while, Sherlock seemingly lost in thought, and John found himself staring at the medical file left open on the table. To think of it, a sibling killing their brother just for money… He couldn’t imagine it… Especially since they’d had the presence of mind to move the body from the crime scene, like they’d had no remorse whatsoever. Surely there was somewhere a humane side to them, a human element in even a killer’s psyche. He couldn’t fathom murdering someone, anyone, in such cold blood. Then again, greed could make people do terrible, inhuman things.

_Oh no_ , he thought with a jolt.

So much for the human element.

“Sherlock,” he said, voice sounding strangled and urgent while a horrible realization crashed over him, and oh how he hoped he was wrong. Sherlock’s head snapped up in response to his tone.

“What?”

“If Cole or Lucille killed Jeremy for his share of their father’s fortune, what’s to stop them from going after their remaining sibling?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Nothing.”

An instant passed, during which they stared at each other while the gravity of what they’d just said settled over the room like a blanket. Then Sherlock stood in one fluid motion, going for his phone. “Lestrade,” he said into it a few seconds later, urgent. “Do you have Lucille McClain’s work number? Because I need it, now! No, I don’t need to write it down, did you forget who you’re talking to? Alright!” He hung up and immediately started dialing again. John stood as well and stepped closer, worry coursing through him like ice.

“Do you think it’s her, or is it Cole? Maybe that’s why he wasn’t home, he killed Jeremy and then fled to avoid being caught.”

“No, had he done it he would have at least stayed for a while to eliminate Lucille too, playing the innocent, mourning brother. However, whichever of them did it, they’d have to make the second death look like an accident. Both siblings dead under mysterious circumstances, it’s too obvious. But if you’re conveniently alibied during the first murder, and then your other sibling simply disappears, how could you be suspected with any real evidence? It would appear your surviving sibling did it and fled, just like you said…”

“Wait, so what are you saying?” John demanded.

“Lucille. I’ll explain; hold on.” Someone on the other end answered. “Yes, hello, this is Detective Sergeant Lestrade, Scotland Yard. I’m calling concerning one of your employees, Lucille McClain. Yes, about last night. What time did she arrive? Yes, and when she left? And did she ever step out during her shift?” He paused, listening, for several achingly long seconds. “I see. Alright, thank you.”

He looked triumphant as he hung up. He went for his coat, and John followed suit. “So? What was that about?”

“She arrived at around half ten and her shift didn’t end until half past seven in the morning. However,” he yanked his scarf on and started darting down the stairs, John rushing to follow. “She took a break at four, and her supervisor said she left the building – which she usually does not do – and didn’t return for forty-five minutes. Can you guess what she came back eating?”

John nearly stumbled into him as they raced out the door and onto the pavement. Sherlock hailed a cab, and John gaped at him. “Don’t tell me…”

Sherlock looked at him, green-gray eyes deadly serious. “A pastry, from her brother’s bakery.”

 

* * *

 

Traffic was always the worst when trying to catch a murderer. They ran into a jam barely five minutes after leaving Baker Street. Typical. Sherlock’s insulting the cabbie didn’t help either, and John had to spend several minutes calming him down. 

“Sherlock, listen,” he snapped. “We’ll get there. Just call Lestrade, tell him what’s happening, and that he has to get to Cole’s before it’s too late.”

Sherlock scowled at him as if irritated John was being smart. “I texted him already a minute ago. Didn’t give details, just said he needed to go, with backup, to Cole’s flat. He knows me well enough not to question me when I don’t explain my deductions.”

John might have chuckled had the situation not been so serious. “What made her kill Jeremy though? They lived together, she helped him at the bakery sometimes. Why would she suddenly kill her own brother if she didn’t know her father was dying? What’s her motive?”

“Did I not tell you where she works?” Sherlock looked mildly surprised that he of all people had neglected to do something. “At St. Bart’s, A&E. I just texted Molly, a friend of mine, who works there as well – she’s a surgeon – and she said Lucille had been caught three days ago poking around the records room. Maybe some conversation with her father tipped her to the truth about his health and she started looking into it. The details don’t really matter how, but it seems somehow she found out and began to plan the elimination of her brothers, Jeremy first. Her overnight shift provided a perfect opportunity to alibi herself. Though I suppose she didn’t count on being spotted as she left the building during her impromptu break, which was not at its scheduled time and lasted longer than is allowed. She probably drove home, killed him, and then moved the body to the other side of the city to keep the trail from leading immediately back to the bakery and thus to her. The entire plot must have been planned ahead of time, but nonetheless she would have had to move fast if she didn’t want to get caught leaving work. Too bad that part didn’t work out quite how she planned.”

John shook his head, appalled. “How could someone do that to her own family?”

“Some people’s natures are buried deep. It just takes the right circumstances to bring them to the surface.” He scowled. “Good at acting, that woman. Playing the grieving sister, even slapping me when I insulted Jeremy.”

“Like I said, you did ask for it.”

Sherlock suddenly smiled a bit. “I’d say this case got a bit more interesting, though.”

John rolled his eyes. “I just hope we get there on time to help Cole.”

“Either way, I don’t think Lucille will be receiving any inheritance money. Also, she may not be planning to kill her remaining brother just yet, which is in our favor, obviously?”  
  
“Why not?”

“She may simply be planning for him to go missing, keep him somewhere. And then once the investigation has run its course and been closed, cold, she’ll ensure he’s gotten out of the way. Permanently. By then her father will likely have passed away, leaving her free to collect her obscenely large fortune.”

John shook his head again. “That’s awful.” He frowned. “So what was the point of talking to your homeless network? What were they doing for you?”

“I had them searching for Cole, actually. I was entertaining the possibility yesterday that he was the one who killed Jeremy. Throughout the night, I get responses back, and none of them had seen him. And they’re better than CCTV, honestly. It should have been a clue to me that something was wrong with my assumption, but… oh well.” He shook his head.

“At least they got something warm to drink out of it,” John went for a bit of levity, but he was too worried about Cole, so it fell flat.

Sherlock nodded absently anyway, then looked down as his phone buzzed. “Lestrade’s on his way with a couple squad cars. They’ll be there in ten minutes.”  
  
“I hope that’s soon enough.”


	7. Extraordinary

They finally got through the traffic jam to Cole McClain’s flat, and John dashed out of the cab after tossing a few bills at the cabbie. Sherlock was already at the front of the building, peering through a window. John rushed up next to him. The window was a bit dirty, so John couldn’t distinguish many details, but the flat looked devoid of life. Hopefully it wasn’t.

Sherlock left his side, and it took John a moment to realize he had stepped up to the doorway and pulled out a few lock-picking tools. “Are you serious?” John asked. “We can’t break in!”

“John, Cole could already be dead, or he could be dying. We can’t chance the former. We don’t exactly have time to wait for Lestrade to arrive with the warrant.”

A bang sounded from somewhere inside the flat, like the sound of a large heavy object – or maybe a body – toppling over. Both Sherlock and John froze. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Is that enough probable cause for you?”

John nodded, and Sherlock went to work. He had the lock defeated in seconds, but just as he was about to turn the knob, John grabbed his wrist. “Wait, we can’t just rush in there, we aren’t even armed. What if Lucille’s got a weapon? And what’s our plan?”

“ _You_ aren’t armed,” Sherlock held up a gun. “You’ll have to stay behind me. We ought to try to find Cole, get him out to safety if possible, and if Lucille is here we have to try to subdue her so that she doesn’t hurt her brother. Or at least stop her from hurting him further.”

“Okay,” John sighed, steeling himself. “But one more question. Where did you get that gun?”

Sherlock smirked. “It’s Lestrade’s backup piece. I, ahem, borrowed it yesterday when we met with him at the bank.”

“And you probably pickpocketed his badge too, right?”  
  
Sherlock blinked, startled. “How did you know that?”  
  
“Psychic, remember?” John deadpanned.

Sherlock shook his head, giving a subtle eye-roll, then shoved the gun in his waistband and turned the doorknob. The flat was silent for a moment as they crept through the front door and through what seemed to be the sitting room, but a muffled cry made them both pause for an instant. They glanced at each other, then exchanged a nod.

Cole was tied to a chair, and a multicolored bruise was forming on his eye. He looked barely conscious, and John recognized his appearance – he was drugged. Looming above him was… not Lucille McClain.

Instead, a rather unassuming man, with average features and average… well, everything, honestly, stood there. John blinked in confusion. He glanced at Sherlock as they both hesitated, taking in this new development. The man hadn’t seemed to have noticed their presence, nor had Cole. “Hit man?” John mouthed, startled. Sherlock nodded, looking equally surprised he had not foreseen this. It seemed Lucille was taking no risks in eliminating her remaining brother, after her rather impulsive murder of Jeremy.

Sherlock’s hand was just starting to reach back for his gun when Cole spotted them. His eyes widened, and the man, evidently noticing this, turned. He had a gun of his own, and an already-bloody knife in his hands. John raised his hands to shoulder-height, worry shooting through him. The man may have looked unthreatening at first glance – aside from the weapons, of course – but something in his eyes told a different story. He had seen death, dealt it, more times than John wanted to consider. He stood there silently for a moment, the gun lazily pointed at them, the knife at his side, and observed. After a second or two, he smiled, eyes on Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man nodded in an almost deferential way. His grin was leering and wicked. “Nice to finally put a face to the name.”

Sherlock, who hadn’t moved even after seeing the man’s gun, raised his eyebrows. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you. And you are?”

“Just the hired help.” His grin didn’t waver, and it made John shudder inwardly. “Heard a lot about you, though I didn’t expect you to show up here. Didn’t even know you was involved with this business.”

Sherlock frowned. “You’ve heard about me? From whom?”

“Why should I give you any names?” he asked, flexing the gun slightly in his grip as if to remind Sherlock it was there. John glanced down and saw Sherlock’s hand creeping as carefully as possible toward his own gun, stashed at the small of his back in the waistband of his trousers. “Let’s just say,” John whipped his gaze back up as the still-unnamed hit man went on. “I’ve got myself a sponsor, and you’ve got yourself a fan.”

And that was when John realized. This man was sponsored by Moriarty, just as the cabbie had been. John had – foolishly – forgotten just how deep Moriarty had his claws sunk into the crimes of England. Sherlock must have, at some point, gotten close enough to one of those operations that the crime lord’s interest had been piqued, and he’d been watching Sherlock ever since, should he prove problematic. Even now, even considering Sherlock’s precarious financial and professional situation, John couldn’t imagine Moriarty would have completely disregarded Sherlock’s intellect. He would be a fool to do so.

“Who would be a fan of me?” Sherlock was asking, as all these thoughts rushed about in John’s mind.

The man chuckled. “Well, it hardly matters now, does it? My sponsor’ll be sure to give me one helluva bonus, if I deliver your head to him.” And he pulled back the safety of the gun, taking calculated aim directly at Sherlock’s torso.

And time seemed to slow for John. He took in the scene as if it were a film, played frame by frame. Sherlock, to his left, tensed and grasped his own gun, his fingers wrapping around it. But it was far, far too late, John knew. There was no way Sherlock could lift his gun and fire before the hit man did.

And the assassin’s arm was steady, terrifyingly steady, as he aimed with the promise of blood at the other end of the shot…

John saw his finger start to squeeze the trigger…

“No!” John moved, throwing himself in front of Sherlock, pushing him back with his arm as he did so. He heard a gunshot, like a small explosion from one of Sherlock’s experiments, and then, as if from a great distance, felt pure, white-hot agony blast through him. And it was pain of an intensity he hadn’t felt in years, not since a stray bullet in Afghanistan had nearly ripped his life away. His vision instantly went black at the edges, and it felt as if his lungs were filling with water. Though it was more likely blood.

A dark shape passed over him, and he thought he heard yelling and more gunshots, a crashing sound, a scream, but he couldn’t make himself move to see what was happening. Then without warning, hands were pressing against his chest. He tried to gasp, to cry out from the pain and pressure, but his voice wouldn’t work. _I’m in shock_ , he thought distantly, the doctor part of his mind fighting to keep him alive, keep him thinking. _Gunshot to the chest. I’m dying. But Sherlock… where is Sherlock…?_

“John?” A deep baritone, urgent and frantic, cut through the clouds in his muddled mind and dragged him back towards reality. “You saved my life.”  
  
“Course I did,” John choked out, even as his body responded to the effort by screaming at him in anguish. “You’re… my best-“  
  
But he couldn’t make the words come, couldn’t make his mouth work the way it was supposed to. His body was on fire, and he couldn’t see, couldn’t even breathe. He thought he heard sirens in the distance, their backup arriving at last, but more keenly felt his extremities starting to go numb, and he knew he was almost gone… But no! No, this wasn’t right; he wasn’t supposed to die here, not like this, bleeding out in the arms of this lonely man, a man who somehow didn’t know how extraordinary he really was. He couldn’t die here in this world that just wasn’t home. He couldn’t die yet… He had to tell Sherlock, he had to… Sherlock had to know. He couldn’t die…

_Sherlock… You’re extraordinary, can’t you see?_

“John, hold on,” Sherlock sounded shaken. “Lestrade is on the way, we’ll get you help, just hang on. Don’t close your eyes, alright, don’t pass out. Just hold on.”  
  
“Okay…” John could hardly see anymore, the pain was obscuring his vision. He forced himself to try to focus on Sherlock’s steady hands and gentle voice, but by the second they were slipping away… or was he slipping away from them? Was he really hearing these words, whispered desperately above him, or was he just imagining them as he died?  
  
“John, come on, stay awake. I… I still have to solve your case, remember? Why you ended up here? I promised, remember? I _promised_ , so come on. Open your eyes.”

Trying to, John thought, but with every passing heartbeat he felt farther away, and opening his eyes seemed increasingly impossible.

“John…”

And the darkness closed in and then there was nothing.

_“John, please don’t leave me…”_

 

* * *

 

Darkness lasted for just a moment, but then suddenly, inexplicably, John’s vision came vaulting back in splotches of muffled color, his hearing in jolts of messy sound. He groaned, feeling a sharp pain on the back of his head when he shifted 

“John,” came a voice above him somewhere. “John, come on, wake up.”

He forced his bleary eyes to stay open, though his head was still spinning and his heart still galloping. Hadn’t he just been shot? And wait, where was Sherlock? Panic rose past his confusion. Sherlock had just been there, telling John to stay awake, to not pass out, to not leave him. Where was he? He was still in danger, had to be, and so John had to help him. That hit man had a gun, where was he-?

“Sherlock!” he cried, sitting up with a jerk. He winced. That had been a bad idea. Why did his head hurt so badly? He hadn’t hit his head; he had been shot. His hand flew to his chest, and he realized he was gasping frantically for air. There was no blood, though, he registered as his hand came away clean and dry. He was fine. “Sherlock?” he gasped again, disoriented.  
  
“It’s alright, John, I’m right here. Hold on, don’t move so quickly.” John looked around in befuddlement to find Sherlock crouched next to him with a look of nearly palpable concern on his face. He looked around rather frantically, ignoring the stinging feeling on the back of his head. The street… the crime scene! Well, the first one, where the body had been dumped by Lucille McClain. And indeed, there was Jeremy’s body, covered in the powdered sugar, with the dirt on his shoes.

“John,” Sherlock repeated, sounding as though he’d been calling his name for a long while. “Look at me. Are you okay?”

He did look, confused and still winded. Sherlock’s hands were clutching his shoulders with a firm but gentle grip, worry in his eyes. Worry, and… _familiarity_.

“Sherlock.” And John could breathe right again, and he forced himself to more slowly, disbelieving. Was he back? Was he really back?

“Yes,” the detective nodded, voice wondrously and amazingly distressed, and it was so laced with _knowing_. “It’s me. What just happened, John? You collapsed. Are you feeling alright?”

But John barely heard him; he was too blown away by relief that his flatmate knew who he was to listen to what he was saying. He was back… He didn’t know how, but he didn’t care. He was home. So without even an instant of hesitation, he flung his arms around Sherlock.

“I’m back,” he whispered. He laughed breathlessly. “It’s you. _Sherlock_.”

“Yes…?” Sherlock sounded rather endearingly perplexed, and so, so familiar, his voice so full of an affinity which John had never realized was there until it hadn’t been. It was so much better than the horrible, distrustful confusion he had had around John the past few days. Well, not _this_ him, the other one. Oh, whatever. His Sherlock was back.

“Have I ever told you that you’re extraordinary?” John asked, voice shaking with relief. “Because you are, Sherlock, you’re extraordinary.”

“Thank you…?” Sherlock sounded so confused, and John grinned.

“Never mind,” he pulled away a bit, wincing again. “What happened?”

“You collapsed, well fainted really,” Sherlock still looked nonplussed and slowly withdrew his hands from John’s back, where he had tentatively hugged him back, in his own awkward way. “You hit your head on the kerb when you fell, so I suspect you have a concussion. Luckily, you were only unconscious for less than a minute, so I don’t think it’s too…”

“Oh, never mind that,” John cut in quickly, waving his hand dismissively. He looked up and found both Donovan and Greg watching the conversation with confused and concerned expressions, a few other officers muttering nearby. He looked around at them, and then back at Sherlock, meeting his flatmate’s spectacularly familiar eyes. “I know who killed Jeremy McClain.”


	8. A Little Madness

Confusion was without question the word of the day, but eventually John managed to convince Lestrade and Sherlock to go to Cole’s flat. It was a rather impressive feat, especially considering none but John had even known who Jeremy was. John had sworn up and down that that was who was dead in the street, but it was clear they were skeptical, to say the least. En route in Lestrade’s car, John had only appeased Sherlock by promising he would explain, but that they had to move quickly if they wanted to save someone from meeting a similar fate as the man at their crime scene.

So they drove to Cole’s flat, but from the moment Lestrade knocked on the door, things started to diverge from what had happened in the other world. John had been tensed, bracing himself to again come face-to-face with the same hit man who had shot him in the parallel universe. But as the door opened, having not been shut all the way in the first place, he saw that inside, standing over a woozy Cole, was Lucille.

A pile of bewildered conversations later, none of which had helped John’s aching head, Lucille was in handcuffs. It seemed she had decided to subdue her surviving brother immediately, and hadn’t even thought to contact any assassins (yet). She hadn’t even managed to tie up Cole, who upon fully regaining consciousness assured them that his sister had admitted to killing their brother Jeremy, that their father was rich and dying, all of it. Lucille, unfortunately, refused to confess, but John wasn’t really discouraged. With Cole alive and mostly well, and Lucille having been caught attacking him red-handed, it would probably prove to be an open and shut case.

So an ambulance was summoned for the somewhat-battered Cole, while Lucille was loaded into the back of Lestrade’s car, despite her vehement protests.

The whole thing was over in fifteen minutes.

John stood off to the side of the action, relieved. He had briefly worried during the drive over that, since this was a different universe than where the case had been solved last time, the perpetrator would be different. It seemed his fears had been groundless, though, and he suppressed a satisfied smile as he watched Lucille railing at a perturbed-looking Donovan from inside the car. Meanwhile, Lestrade and Sherlock had their heads together, conferring on the pavement outside Cole’s flat, glancing not-so-subtly over at John. He just waited patiently, almost positive he knew what they were talking about.

It probably would not go well if he tried to play the psychic card again.

“Sherlock?” he called finally, after giving them ample time to theorize about him. He waited until the two looked over at him again, then pointed with a grimace at his own head. It was still throbbing slightly and really could use some ice, but he mainly wanted them to stop looking at him like he had gone utterly bonkers. So it was with immense relief that he watched Sherlock apparently understand his message and bid Lestrade a quick farewell.

“Sorry to cut you off, but I’d really like to start the process of heading home,” John made for the nearest major road, hoping to hold off Sherlock’s questions at least until they were back at 221B.

No such luck of course, not when dealing with the ever-inquisitive Sherlock Holmes.

“John, wait,” his voice was low, intense, and he reached out to grasp the shorter man’s arm to stop him. John met his gaze and saw confusion in his eyes. “Tell me what’s going on now.”

It wasn’t just confusion, though. There was a bit of something almost like… fear, which seemed unlike Sherlock. Then again, John had just solved in a case in about fifteen minutes, while Sherlock had pretty much stood dumbly to the side. The man was probably concerned for his job, or perhaps sanity, or something.

“I don’t think you’d believe me…” John said with a half-hearted smile. He hoped in spite of everything that Sherlock would let it go for a while; he was about one hundred fifty percent exhausted. He _had_ been shot less than an hour ago. Well, kind of. Not technically, since he was fine now… But still.

“John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You just solved a crime. _You_ did. This is unprecedented. I think it would be rather fitting should the explanation prove to be just as bizarre.”

John scowled at him, though his heart wasn’t really in it. He could hardly blame Sherlock for being… well, freaked out. However, on seeing the sudden scowl, Sherlock glanced away, avoiding John’s gaze. It was unfathomable for a moment, and John stared at him blankly, trying to parse this action. But then he remembered the fight, the things he had said to Sherlock, things that had surprisingly hurt him, and the awkward silence in the cab on the way to the crime scene. It felt like about a million years ago to John, and he had already forgiven Sherlock (of course), but to Sherlock it was sure to be still fresh on his mind, still unresolved.

“ _I wish you were easier to live with_ …” John almost laughed aloud at the words of his past self. ‘Be careful what you wish for’ was an applicable phrase. Because sure, Sherlock drove him mad sometimes, but as he’d come to realize in the last day or so of being around not-his-Sherlock, a little madness wasn’t so bad.

He reached out and touched Sherlock’s arm gently. “Okay, fine. If you’re willing to humor me, I’ll just get it over with. Mind if we walk home and I’ll tell you what happened?”

Sherlock looked up at him – John felt a thrill again at seeing the gorgeous, subtle camaraderie that existed unconsciously in his friend’s eyes – and nodded. John sighed in relief, and together, they turned for home.

 

* * *

 

_Twenty minutes later..._

“... And how hard did you hit your head, exactly?” Sherlock asked, his eyebrows dangerously close to disappearing into his curls. He unlocked the door to the flat with swift efficiency, and John followed him inside, indignant.  
  
“Oh come on, you’ve got to believe me! I wouldn’t make this up, and you know it. I couldn’t.”

“You really expect me to believe that you were gone for a full day in some parallel universe in which I didn’t know you and was on the verge of losing my job?” Sherlock scoffed as he took off his coat and started up the stairs.

“But I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true-“ John protested as he followed Sherlock into the sitting room, where he nearly ran into the taller man, who had stopped in his tracks. “Sherlock, what are you…?”

“What are _you_ doing here?” John groaned inwardly. Sherlock’s tone meant only one person could have entered their home: Mycroft.

“Sherlock,” the elder Holmes brother was sitting in John’s chair, a smug smile on his face. John grit his teeth as he and Sherlock entered the flat. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good. “Congratulations on capturing the baker’s murderer. Such a shame, siblings murdering siblings.”

Sherlock looked as if he were seriously debating doing the same thing, his fists clenched at his sides and his jaw set. “I have had an annoyingly strange day thus far, Mycroft,” he said in a soft voice. “And John has been injured, so if you’re here to bother us with some troublesome case for king-and-country or whatever nonsense it usually is, you should get used to disappointment. I have no intention of making this day any more bothersome.”

“Not to worry, brother dear, I am simply here to explain a few matters to John,” Mycroft stood and gave John an irritatingly-cordial nod in greeting. “I have no doubt you’ve been harboring some confusion the last day or so. Well, approximately a day for you, but not for Sherlock and me. How long, exactly, would you say you were in the … _other_ universe?”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped, astounded. John couldn’t help but feel the same way. “This madness was _your_ doing?” Sherlock exclaimed, while John struggled to find his voice. “So John has a concussion because of _you_?”

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” John muttered after a moment. “You said it yourself, it’s not all that serious.” He turned to Mycroft and resisted the urge to strangle the man. “So, you, out with it. How do you know what happened to me?”

Mycroft had the presence of mind to look at least slightly abashed. “Because we used you.”

“Used me? How so?” A pit of worry settled somewhere in his gut. “Mycroft, if you are about to tell me that you used me in some sort of government experiment without my consent, I just might stand back and let Sherlock here cause you bodily harm.”

“Which isn’t as empty a threat as I think you want to believe,” Sherlock added from his position between the two men. His eyes were daggers as they bored into his brother. John shuddered under his expression, even though it wasn’t trained on him. At least he was on John’s side.

“John, there is no need to worry,” Mycroft said in an appeasing tone, with a rather uneasy glance at Sherlock. “The side effects of the drug are virtually nonexistent, and they should fade within the next twenty-four hours, if the results from our other test subjects prove to be true in your case as well.”  
  
“Side effects?” John echoed, voice coming out strangled. “Drug? What did you _do_ to me, Mycroft Holmes?”

“It’s a revolutionary drug some of my people have been developing. Several hours after administration, it transports the subject to a parallel universe for a time. The uses are, however, classified – well above even your clearance, Sherlock, and therefore I would appreciate it if both of you would refrain from mentioning the drug’s existence to anyone.” It was evident it was a command rather than a request, but John barely cared about that at the moment.  
  
“What side effects?” he repeated, scowling now.

“Dizziness is the most frequently-occurring, though if you notice other issues with basic motor skills or speaking for the next few hours, don’t be alarmed. They fade in no time.”  
  
“If you’ll allow me to interrupt,” Sherlock said, not pausing to see if Mycroft would allow it or not. “I just want to make sure I understand this. You are running tests of a potentially dangerous intravenous drug on unwitting civilians, and John and I are not even permitted to know _why_? Even though _he_ was one of the unwitting participants?”

“Perhaps someday,” Mycroft replied in a voice laced with doubt that such a day would ever arrive. “But for now, I am afraid you must remain ignorant. And I am hardly a barbarian, Sherlock. All of the participants consent to the drug and are duly compensated. John was… an exception, though I knew he would not refuse had we asked. Unlike _you_ , he is a loyal citizen, who has been quite willing in the past to serve, as you say, king-and-country.”  
  
“Hang on,” John said, cutting off Sherlock’s probably-scathing reply. “Serving in a war is one thing. But why did you choose me for this drug trial? Why am I an exception? You could have picked anyone off the street and asked them, but instead you chose to do this – without obtaining permission – to one of the few people in the world who knows _exactly where you live_? How stupid are you?”  
  
Sherlock choked back a laugh at Mycroft’s startled expression. The government man took a moment before he replied, obviously struggling to regain the upper hand in the conversation. “Because I thought you needed it.”  
  
“What, I _needed_ to be tossed into some bloody awful version of my life where I have nothing to live for and no best friend? I _needed_ to end up getting shot again?” John laughed derisively. “I think you need to rethink your logic about who needs what. Because I can think of a few things _you_ need at the moment…”

“You needed to be reminded that, despite its frequent difficulties, you _chose_ the life you have built with my brother. The both of you would do well not to take one another for granted.” Mycroft sounded cool and assured once again, in spite of the many threats that had been fired at him in the last few minutes. “I was made aware of your… _spat_ from last night, so this seemed an opportune moment to accomplish multiple goals at virtually the same instant. You did solve a murder case in approximately fifteen minutes in this reality, which almost certainly saved a young man’s life.”  
  
“Now,” he said, swinging his umbrella over his shoulder and smoothly side-stepping Sherlock, who was staring into space with his fists clenched at his sides, expression still livid. “By your leave, I have other matters to attend to. And if you would be so kind, John, I have a report or two for you to fill out. I shall send them to you presently.”

He swept out before John could say anything more, leaving the flat in silence and John’s brain in a puddle of mystification and frustration. It took a few seconds, but at last John shook his head, forced to accept that Mycroft had apparently gotten away with this total madness. Well, maybe he had. Sherlock might not let this go. Because John didn’t think he wanted to know what was going on in his flatmate’s mind palace in the aftermath of the revelations they’d just heard.

He glanced around. Sherlock had not moved an inch and was still staring at nothing, though a bit less angrily now that his brother had departed. John watched as his expression slowly transitioned from fury at the violation of John’s life to looking for all the world as if he were lost in deep thoughts about… who knew what, but it was certainly nothing good.

“Mycroft’s insane,” John finally said as he slumped into his chair, rubbing his aching temples. He needed ice, or maybe alcohol. “How could he do this to me?”  
  
Sherlock was still for a few more seconds, but then he snapped out of his odd little trance and started to practically bounce about the room. “Because he’s a pompous entitled moron,” he replied. “I’m actually more intrigued by the science behind this drug.” He seized a notebook and jotted down a few hasty notes, which John immediately feared would result in experiments for days, maybe even weeks, to come. “After all, how could an intravenous drug physically transport a subject to a parallel universe, but not affect the subject’s body or mind? It has to be some sort of temporal and spatial-“  
  
“Sherlock,” John interrupted gently. “Does it really matter? It works beautifully, that’s all I know. But I really wouldn’t like to go through a second test. I rather like my life here.”  
  
Sherlock turned and looked at him. A smirk slowly appeared on his face. “So I was right. You _would_ miss me if I were gone.”  
  
He clearly meant it to sound joking, but there was something in his eyes that told John he was thinking, again, of their fight from the day before. John just smiled back. “I… did miss you,” he admitted, thinking back to the other version of Sherlock, how lonely and lost he had been. Yes, his own Sherlock was preferable, less saddening. He chuckled. “Though I didn’t miss the toes in the bathtub,” he added, just to needle Sherlock. 

Sherlock smiled. He didn’t reply for a moment, just looked over at John. “I suspect,” he murmured finally, as if he were weighing each word carefully in his mouth before he spoke them. “That had our places been reversed and I had been taken to that world… I too would have… taken notice of your absence.”

“I’m touched,” John said dryly, though he really was. What Sherlock had said earlier, however, did make John pause. “So…” he frowned. “Wait a moment. No time passed for you, you said?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, you were unconscious for less than a minute. Not a day, which I think I would have noticed, so I didn’t exactly have time to miss you... Why?”  
  
“Just… where was the other version of me, while I was over there in that universe or dimension or whatever-it’s-called? There can’t have been two of us running around…”

Sherlock shrugged. “Well, I assure you, there was not another you who appeared suddenly at the crime scene while you were unconscious. It could be that you – the other you, I mean – was simply not in existence while you were occupying his world. Or he could have been there as well, and there being two of you might have only become a problem had you met. We may never find out, assuming Mycroft will remain secretive about the project and how it works.”  
  
John sighed. “I guess it’s a good thing the other me didn’t show up here. His life was pretty awful. You would have had to cure his limp all over again, and his depression. And who knows what other problems he had from his PTSD.”

Sherlock scoffed in response. “I’m not a miracle worker. And that honestly sounds quite tedious.” He sat down on the sofa, scribbling another note in the notebook, though it was in an almost absentminded way. They sat in silence for a moment, then Sherlock shifted, eyes lifting and taking on a thoughtful gloss. “So… your life was utterly miserable, I was nearly jobless so Mrs. Hudson was probably going to have to evict me, and Lestrade had been demoted so we all had to deal with Donovan far more than is comfortable. Molly was a surgeon, you mentioned? Intriguing… What about my brother?” He grimaced as a thought occurred to him. “Oh, please tell me he wasn’t heading _both_ MI6 and the CIA or something just as annoyingly-important…”

John grinned. “Better. He was Prime Minister.”

“Really?” A playful grin brightened Sherlock’s face. “That’s it? Oh, I hope he sees that in your report… He’ll _loathe_ the thought of that demotion…”

John joined in his burgeoning laughter, unable to hide the look of affection he knew was on his face as he looked at his flatmate, so glad to finally be home.


	9. Epilogue

In another world, London was still reeling from news of a shootout that had caused havoc on a residential street two days before. The press reports were a bit opaque concerning the details, but it seemed a young man had been hospitalized and a young woman arrested. However, there had been no fatalities and only minor injuries, an accomplishment for which one Detective Sergeant in particular was receiving widespread praise. However, eyewitness accounts had insisted they had spotted what appeared to be an unassuming male figure stealing away from the scene, even after uniformed officers had cleared the scene. Rumors and speculations were flying that the matter had involved a contracted hit, but that the assassin had escaped. All anyone could hope for was that someone would eventually be able to illuminate the dark corners of the situation…

In the middle of this other London, as evening spread twilight shadows across the streets, Sherlock Holmes climbed out of a cab into the beginnings of what promised to be a drizzling and miserable rain, looking up at the ramshackle flat looming in front of him. Shingles were falling off the roof, the windows were streaked with dirt from the outside world, and the paint on the door was peeling. Despite that rather repelling sight, it was with firm resolve and perhaps a bit of anxious excitement that the consulting detective approached the door. He knocked firmly, hoping that the fascinating man he sought was within. A few moments passed with nothing but the steadily increasing patter of rain to accompany Sherlock’s spinning, cautiously-sanguine thoughts.

He was still filled with frustration about what had happened with Cole McClain’s would-be killer. Lucille had been arrested, yes, but the assassin had escaped, and he was the one Sherlock really cared about. He was determined the man would not remain at large for long. There was this matter of investigating his “fan,” after all. Someone did indeed have some sort of interest in him, and Sherlock was determined to find out who he was.

However, now… He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing here, at this flat. This might be a ridiculous idea, a pointless, stupid idea. The last few days had been… unconventional, to say the least. Sherlock didn’t understand why no one else remembered the man who’d stumbled upon the crime scene, who had helped Sherlock solve the case, who had then been shot and died in his arms, only to disappear, as if he had never been. How could no one else remember that? Not Lestrade, not Donovan, not even his brother. None of them had known what he was talking about. Why? How? Hadn’t they seen how much this man had woken up Sherlock, how he had inexplicably made the consulting detective remember why he loved what he did, how he had given Sherlock something to believe in again? _That_ was a man who deserved to be remembered, someone Sherlock _had_ to find again. He wasn’t finished learning about him, not by a long shot.

Perhaps, if all went well, he would never have to be.

After an agonizingly long minute of standing in the rain, trapped in his own frantic thoughts, waiting for an answer that he started to fear would never come, he watched the door creak open. A flash of blue eyes, a polite but weary smile, and a hand wrapped tightly around a cane handle greeted Sherlock.

“Doctor Watson?” he asked, holding his breath. “Doctor… John Watson?”

“That’s me. Can I help you?”  
  
Sherlock stood up straighter, but as he met the gaze fixed onto his, reticence choked off his voice. Last-second doubt paralyzed him. What if things were different than in the other world? What if what he needed wasn’t here, in the broken man before him? What if that had only been one version of reality? What if he didn’t need… whatever it was that he’d felt himself discovering the past few days? Maybe coming here had been a stupid idea…

But the thought of existing again without that vigor, that passion for life he’d regained, sent shivering down his spine a chill that had nothing to do with the cold wind and rain.

If things weren’t meant to be in this world as they were in another… it would be awful, certainly, but hesitating now like this might be worse… because could he go on just not knowing? It had to be worth a try. So Sherlock Holmes steeled himself, cleared his throat, and met Doctor Watson’s gaze resolutely, clinging to the promise of possibility. As he did, a slow, hopeful smile spread across his face.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

FIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read this story! I hope you had as much fun reading as I had writing it! Throwing John into such a situation was hugely enjoyable, and getting to know this Sherlock was great. I love him dearly, which is why I couldn't resist this last little scene.
> 
> If you are so inclined, please leave a comment; I'd love to read your feedback. 
> 
> And with this chapter, I am finally caught up posting my finished works on this site. In the (hopefully near) future I'll be posting some new works (Sherlock and potentially other fandoms too)! Stay tuned... ~ SAF


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